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?**+ A +* ?*+ A ***** A +***+ A > ? THE BISI f :: THE BU i My lord the bishop of Ijoemster stood in the pretty garden of onklands at midnight and sniffed complacently at the fresh night air. It was the second week of his visit to his old college chum. Dr. Glbbs. a medical man with a straggling practice in a small rural district, and the absence of pomp and ceremony was grateful I lo Ills wearieu un With a sigh of content the bishop J walked majestically back to the house, r He turned the handle of the door, and I to his astonishment he found it wasl locked. He then remembered thatl he had left the key of the patent lock I on the study table. The long French windows of thel drawing room were also fast, and thel bishop knitted his brows in thought.! Then he smiled softly and, walking I round the house, stopped at the studyl window. He struck a match and! looked at the sash, where the upper! and lower halves met. and from his I waistcoat produced a penknife. Inserting the broad blade between I the sashes, he pushed carefully. The!1 catch swung back with a little click. |l and the bishop pushed up the window.! He had barely lifted one portly leg 11 over the sill when a strong hand grip-r ped him from behind by the nape of|< his neck. "Get along in with yer," hissed ah voice in his ear. "and don't forget I' there's this be'ind yer." |i The bishop, sitting perilously on the! windowsill, felt something round andll cold against his neck. I; "Now, then, in with yer," threaten- I ed the voice in low tones. If The bishop gave a little jump to the! floor, and was brought up standing by I the hand on his collar. He felt, rath-h er than saw, a heavy figure climbing! after him. Twisting himself painful-If ly. he half turned and saw?a police-I; man. "Oh." said the bishop, with a little It gasp, "it's you. constable, is it? D'youll know I thought you were a burglar. 11 and I suppose you took me for one?" If "Shut It," said the policeman, in a| low. curt voice. It "Keally. officer, I think you forget ll to whom you are talking. "Oh. chuck It." was the brutal reply. A set of bony knuckles dug deep 1 Into his neck. The bishop wriggled impatiently. I "It appears to me you're going beyond your duty, constable." s With a twist the policeman edged ' him 011 to a chair and shone a bull's- 1 eye Into his face. < "You're making me cross, that's what you are." whispered the officer. "Where's the rest of the family? < Gorn to bed, or ain't they at home?" i The bishop tried to push the bull'seye away. "I think you must have been drink- ' ing." he said, shortly, "and I feel very sorry Dr. Gibbs is not at home." "Oh. Gibbs ain't at "ome," said, the policeman, slightly raising his voice; < "and where's 'is man?" "If there were any one at all in the ' house," said the indignant prelate, "I should ring the bell and have you ejected." "Open your mouth so wide agen i and I'll shove my bull's-eye down your 1 throat," threatened the policeman. "Did I 'ear yer say there was no one f in the 'ouse at all?" "No. one," snorted the bishop, wriggling in his chair. "Dr. Gibbs was suddenly called away, and as he does- > n't expect to be back till morning, he took his chauffeur with him. And 1 now, my good man," he added, ! conciliating!)', "having convinced you, I hope, that I am not a burglar, will you please go?" 1 The policeman laughed slightly. " 'Ere, I've had enough messirt' about; get up and light the gas. and if yer up to any monkey tricks I'll I blow yer brains out." This appalling threat from an officer ' of the law well-nigh asphyxiated the bishop, and he started forwyrd indignantly, almost breaking his teeth on 1 the muzzle of the revolver. "Now, then, get on with it." With mingled feelings of terror and ' wrath the bishop groped on the mantel-piece and finally lit the gas. The light shone on a tall, cleanshaven constable holding a lantern ' and a revolver. The loneliness of the country beat, the bishop reflected, had perhaps affected this poor fellow's brain, and he 1 must be humored. "There we are," he said cheerily; "and now wouldn't you like to come 1 and see the greenhouse?" It would be easy, he thought, to lure 1 the man into the conservatory, lock him in, and then lustily toll the fire bell in the turret, thus arousing the in ighbors. j "Oh, take a perch." said the policeman. "Sit down," he explained, impatiently. 1 "Now, then," he continued, removing his helmet and showing a round, , close-cropped head," sure there ain't no one else in the 'ouse'.'" "Not a soul," groaned the bishop, ' miserably. "That's all right, then. 'Ere, what are them things?" The bishop looked down at his gait- , ers. "Oh, I always wear them. We all do. you know," he stammered, wondering if a heavy book suddenly thrown would disable the visitor. "Oh, do yer? Well, what are yer when yer at *ome?" "I'm a bishop." "A bishop, are yer? I've never met a bishop afore." A broad grin stole over the policeman's face. "Then, me lord bishop, where's the silver?" He leaned over and leered at the bishop, who returned the gaze timidly. till the horrid truth dawned upon him. "Then you," he gasped, "must be a burglar, not a policeman?" "Policeman, me elbow!" was the contemptuous reply. " 'K's asleep in the ditch, with my old coat spread over *im, and no 'elmet; with a quartern o' special Scotch inside 'im and somethin* in it to make Mm sleep." "Then why," asked the bishop, in- ( stinct of law and order prevailing j over terror?"why are you masquerading it his coat?" . "Why am I wot?" "I say. why are you masquerading in his coat?" , "I don't know nothin" about that, but I know as I've got 'is coat on cause it suits me, see? And if you ! carn't see I carn't 'elp yer." "Well, I think it's a disgraceful thing, your coming here disguised as a policeman and expecting me to? to" "That's jest it. Wot I'm expectin' yer to do is to 'elp me find the silver; then I shall tie you up nice and tidy with a bit of a 'andkerchief in yer mouth. After which I shall 'op otY. and if any one sees me in the road they'll say. 'Good evenin', constable; line night, ain't it?' and there we are. Now. then, guv'nor, let's gel to work." "No!" almost shouted the bishop, clutching the arms of the chair; "1 will not. 1 absolutely refuse. .\ow, once again, will you please go?" II*' folded his hands as if to finally dismiss the subjeet. The simplicity of the appeal moved the burglar to derisive laughter. He picked up the lantern and moved to t he door. "Hut." said the bishop, horrified, "you don't think I'm going with you to help you rob"? "I don't think I know!" The burglar stepped up and gripped him by the collar. ".Vow. then, you know the way and I don't: so 'urry up!" From underneath his coat the man extracted a green baize bag. which he pushed into the bishop's hands. t'rged by that dreadful grip. the bishop groped his way into the hall and turned to the right. "Idnin* room." whispered the .voice at his back. "'Kre. why don't ycr look w here yer goin".'" The bishop retorted sharply that he had no wish to break his neck. "flettin" saucy, an* yet? Try that." The butt of a revolver descend'"! sharply on the episcopal head. The P'.-hop made a frenzied dash. n..d almost fell into the dining room. Quickly the burglar locked the door. and. threatening his prisoner with death if lie moved, shone iiis bull's-eye round the room with professional swiftness. "'old the sack, mate," he said at length. . a +* *** a +*?*+ a iOP AND ! RGLAR:: ? "I decline to bo a party to your disgraceful proceedings." "Getting nasty, are yer? I'll talk .. mlnnt.. ' \ I Inn whflt's this?whisky? May as well "ave a drop." He looked for n glass. "Now, I know what you're thinkin'." said the burglar, helping himself liberally: "you're thinkin' as I shall take a drop too much, see??and then you'll 'ave a look in. Not me. guv'nor. I never drink more than once between meals, so now yer know." Nevertheless, he swallowed the raw whisky without a shudder. Under its influence he developed a cheery vein. "Ah." he said, unbuttoning the unaccustomed tunic, "this is what I call 'omely. Now. guv'nor. give us a song. Plenty of time afore your pals come back. I feel as if I must be "umored." "A song!' expostulated the bishop. "What nonsense! I haven't sung for years." "Then it's about time yer tried, (live us somethin' soothin' and not too loud." "Well, do you know. I don't think It would be safe." said the bishop, with a low cunning that almost sham?d him: "somebody might hear." "Artful old cove, you are." at length said the burglar, smiling vacuously: "but blowed if I don't think you're right." The bishop involuntarily groaned, hastily correcting himself with a yawn. "Ain't yer enjoyin' yerself?" was the suspicious inquiry. "Oh. yes: quite so. thanks." "Then why don't yer laugh? I never saw any one look so miserable. You're disappointed at not singing that song, that wot's the matter with you." The burglar's mood had changed, and the bishop noted with alarm that the faster the whisky disappeared the more saturnine and exacting became the odious visitor. "Go on. 'urry up and laugh." demanded the burglar, "settln" there lookin' as if you 'ad the toothache: urry up. laugn: He emphasized the order by a thump of the revolver on the table. The bishop smiled In a nervous, fleeting manner. "If yer makes them faces at me." ?aid the burglar, sourly, "d'yer know ivot'll 'appen? I shall put a bullet through yer and bury yer in the flow?rhed. Gimme the whisky!" "But you asked me to laugh." pleaded the bishop, wondering whether an onen cheque would persuade the scoundrel to depart. "Told yer to laugh, did I?" said the burglar, throwing one leg over the othpr. "Then suppose yer make me laugh for a change. D'yer know any funny stories?" "Not one." was the prompt and discouraging reply. The burglar leaned over and picked up the revolver. "A funny story, I said, and it's got to be one as'll make me laugh, see?" The bishop's soul sank within him. and in his anguish he could only think of the multiplication table. "That story don't seem to be comin' along," was the grim reminder. Then in a muddled way there came to the flustered bishop the indistinct memory of something about a curate and an egg. "Well." he began hesitatingly, with one eye on the window, "there was once a curate"? "Where?" asked the burglar, densely. ".?and he went to stay with a bishop"? "Along o' you?" "No. no, another bishop." "One o* your pals. I s'pose. All right, get on with it." "And in the morning he had an gg"? "Wot for?" "Why. for breakfast, of course," continued the bishop, crossly, wondering what on earth came next. "Well, why didn't yer say so? And wot I want to know is w'en I'm goin' to laugh!" "Yes, yes. I'm comin- to that. Now, the egg was not a one, but the curate was too polite to say so"? " 'E must 'ave been a cuckoo?beg parding. go on." "Suddenly the bishop looked over, and said"? "'Arf a minute?'oo's egg was it?" "The bishop's?no. the curate's, of course. Well, the bishop leaned over und said. 'I'm afraid your egg is not a ifood one.' " The reconteur paused and groped inwardly for the curate's repartee. The burglar looked up with a start and gazed ferociously at the unhappy Disnop, woo i'iiuuiiui-m. urn i . " 'Well. no. my lord.' replied the curate; 'I'm afraid it's rallied bad in parts.' " The burglar looked at him with a blank face, then he drew the whisky over, helped himself liberally and addressed the bishop in tones more of sorrow than anger. "That's wot I call takin' a great liberty," he said, solemnly. "I arsk you in a friendly way to tell me a funny story"?he lurched slightly forward and recovered himself?"and that's wot 'appens. Take off yer boots." The bishop moved nervously in his chair and tried to avoid the focus of the unsteady revolver. "Boots!" came the command. "Take 'em off! Yer've got to dance ter me now. Dance, d'.ver 'ear?" 'But"? "Take 'em off!" With tears of vexation in his eyes the bishop stooped and unlaced his boots. "An' now. Inter the middle of the room and dance to me like?like a bootiful fairy," he added, as an encouraging simile. "I absolutely refuse." "Absolu"? The burglar tried to repeat the word, and thinking better of it went on: "Like a bootiful fairy, and If yer say another word yer'll 'ave to take off yer leggln's. too." With sick despair in his heart the bishop moved into the middle of the room and stood timorously in his stockinged feet. "Life a bootiful fairy," was the repeated order, emphasized by the waving revolver. Then the bishop gave two little hops, feeling that lie was degraded forever. "Not a bit like a fairy." said the burglar, shaking bis head solemnly. "Music, that's wot yer want, music." He tried to whistle, but. failing Ignominlouslv. endeavored to renew his powers with whisky. "Not a bit o' good. You whistle yourself." The bishop huskily whistled the first fev bars of a voluntary and pirouetted laboriously. "That's better." saiil the burglar, approvingly. "Now we'll have it just a little bit 'igher." Only the thought of a distant family prevented the bishop throwing himself on the waving revolver and risking sudden death. "Try agen and don't stop, and keep on whistlin'." Setting his teeth, and feeling that suieide were preferable, tin bishop bounded into the air and eurved his legs into unseemly attitudes. "OiK'ore! tun-ore!" The dancer, in desperation, though of throwing himself backward through the window, when, out of the corner of one eye. lie saw a motorcar gliding lip tile drive. With a wild jo.v in this heart lie pirouetted to the table. Then almost with one movement lie seized the water bottle, sent it crashing through the window, and with a wild shriek for help Hung himself on the burglar. When, a few scrotals later. In*, flibbs and Ids chauffeur, bursting open the wimlow. dashed into tin- room, they saw my hud the bishop .if ly.enistei sitting astride a man in policeman's uniform and belaboring him with the bread basket. The burglar was soon secured. "Now." said the bishop, grimly, "we'll put this gentleman into the car and drive him to the police station if you have one anywhere near this benighted spot. < libbs. The burglar, who was firmly tied to a chair, looked up and grinned. r.io*.?,,|. f 111 I I'll ,1:1V I . ' inn'- s". h * notliin' aliniit tin- lanrin'." "I?'in"t I't iiim M|H-ak t" i.a-, rjjlilis." ( <itnnianilf<l the l?ish?i|?. "ur I shall strikf him. buiiml as hf is." Hf in-Vfrthflfss hfhl a liurrifil ninsultation with I>r. tlibbs. ami the chauffeur having received some whispered instructions, left the room. In a few moments the man returned with the village policeman, looking very much ashamed of himself and wearing an old black jacket. "I didn't know nothin" till I woke up, sir." he explained to flibbs. An exchange of garments was soon made, and then Gihbs turned to tinchauffeur. "Now. Ellis, put this man in the car" ?he pointed to the burglar?"drive him out thirty miles as hard as you can. and then put him down?there'll be no trame ai mis nine in me morning. "So Ions," said the burglar, as ho was being led away. "If you was a hit slimmer, guv'nor, you'd dance bettor. Now, then, 'Oratio. lead on!" The bishop looked earnestly at the breadknife and then turned away with clenched fists. When the policeman had sidled out of the room, C.ibbs turned to his friend: "Now, then, old man, tell us all about it." Next Sunday the little village church was crowded to hear the bishop of Leonister read the lessons. To this day the congregation cannot understand why Dr. Oihhs suddenly took up his hat and left, while the prelate (lushed and coughed over a verse which stated that there was much dancing.?Frank Howel Evans in the Strand Magazine. QUESTIONS* IN COURT. A Series That Moved an Observer to Turn Critic. A man who spent several days in a court room listening to the examination of veniremen was struck with the reflection that some shining legal minds would not be unduly dimmed by the infusion of a few of the prlnc'nles of logic. The time taken up by attorneys in drawing the conclusion that a juror ?vh i lives at a given address makes his home there and then referring the conclusion to the juror for confirmation has not been com puted. but any one mainemaucauy . inclined may figure It out by multiplying the following examples by any handy large round number: "What is your occupation?" "I am a switchman." "On a railroad?" The obvious answer which the juror's awe of his surroundings prevents him from making would be, of course. "So. In an ice cream parlor." "Judge." said a juror. "I would like to be excused from service. When summoned T was making arrangements for my brother-in-law's funeral." "Is your brother-in-law dead?" Inquired the court. It developed that he was. "Now. Mr. Juror." came another question, "what is your age?" "Forty-four." "Forty-four years old?" That is exactly what the juror meant. The lawyer guessed right the very first time. Here is another flash that came to one of the attorneys. "Where do you live?" he asked. "At 4416 Blank street." "You reside there, do you?" Once in awhile there Is a funny answer which isn't to be wondered at considering the power of suggestion. ] "Are you married?" 1 "Yes." I "Any family?" "Two." But the balance is well on the lawyers' side Witness this: The ques- i tloner had asked if a juror was relat- \ ed In any way to any of the prlncipals or witnesses in the case. "I am a brother-in-law of Mr. ' Blank, one of the witnesses," was the ( reply. j "You married his sister, then?" Ho had. 5 "I^et me ask you now, Mr. Juror, I have you formed any opinion about i the guilt or innocence of this defend- f ant?" "I have." "Is it a fixed opinion or is it one t that could be changed by evidence?" ] "It could be changed if the evidence t were strong enough." "Then you would not call it a definite opinion?" "No." "It is a vague opinion, then?" "Yes." "Now. Mr. Juror follow me closely. , if you please. You say your opinion v is a vague one and not definitely fixed. Now. then, if that is the case and you went into that jury box and listened j to the evidence adduced from that wit- . ness stand and heard the law expounded by the judge front that bench, t would it not be possible for you to lay i aside that opinion and concur in a t verdict warranted by the evidence and the instructions of the court?" 1 "Yes." t The attorney having received the t same answer to his long question as to his short one. is perfectly satisfied and throws a triumphant look at his 1 colleague, which says, "I knew I could t get it out of him if I kept at him long t enough." . Here is another astonishing deduction: A juror took the stand dressed 1 in a blue uniform with brass buttons, t Around his belt was strapped a money ( changer. The examining attorney looked at him long and searchingly and then said in a tone which admit- < ted of no trifling: "You are a street car conductor?" ^ It was the same attorney who forced this confession from another juror: ' "What is your occupation?" t "I'm a bookkeeper for Hlatik & t Co." "You keep books in the office?" Unmasked, the bookkeeper broke 1 down and made a clean breast of it. t "Now, Mr. Juror, be good enough to ( state how old you are." "Fifty-six years." "How long have you resided in this s state?" t "Fifteen years." t "Then you were not born here?" The trapped man admitted the truth. Here is another: > "Were you born in Missouri?" c "No, sir." "Oh, I see. Then you moved here* 1 from some other state." And then 1 in a "oonie-oome-don't-delay-the j court" tone of voice," where did you r come from?" "Phleasro." 1 "Chicago, HI.?"?Kansas City Times FIRST PICTURE BOOK. The Daring Idea That Was Carried Out by Johann Comenius. Some 300 years ago a German savant had a wonderful vision. At that time children were taught to read by force of arms, so to speak, through hardships and with bitter toil on the part of teacher and of child. It seems curious that the first real step toward lightening the labor of children as they climbed the ladder of learning was the product of the Imagination not of some fond mother or gentlewoman teacher, but of a bewlgged and bet it led university doctor. It was Johann Comenius, however, who first conceived the daring idea that children could be taught by the , aid of the memory and the imaging- < tion working together, "by means," as he (piaiutly expressed it. "of sensuous | impressions conveyed to the eye, so i that visual objects may be made tin- < medium of expressing moral lessons to i the young mind and of impressing | those lessons upon the memory." In ] other words, the good herr doctor had i the bright idea that picture books i could be useful to children. Comenius made his lirst picture book and called it the "Orbis rictus." It contains rude woodcuts representing objects in the i natural world, as trees and animals. , Willi 111 I M * |t'.SMI||? ilMIMII |W< | * It ? | It is a quaint volume ami one that would cause the average modern child ] not a little astonishment wen* it placed j before him. i As truly, however, as that term may , he applied to any other hook that has . since been written, the "(trhic I'ictus" | was an epoch making I It is the precursor of all children's picture , hooks, and modern childhood has great | cause to bless the name of Comenius. ] :- lLM |y holo jl>y; Anierloai Former Senator William A. Clark, of Montana, will soon formally open his lome in New York city, the most exjensive private residence in the Unit3d States. The fact that a man has built a home tnd is going to invite a number of 'riends to inspect its beauties is not ,'ery startling, as a rule, but when the louse cost a total of J7,000,000 and $0,100,000 more was spent infurnishing t, then it comes under the head of lome house. Ten years ago Mr. Clark ilanned a New York home, giving the ircnitect iuii power 10 turn oui si i>uiice among palaces. There has never >een a private residence in this counry subjected to so much discussion, ^ages have been devoted in magazines o finding flaws in the "lines," the tow rs and the general appearance of the THE FRAUD OF 1876. dwindling Samuel J. Tilden Out of the Presidency. During the month of November, 1S7?, t became apparent thsit an effort v rs teing made in Louisiana to indue* the eturning board, as the state cmvassng board was called there, to reverse he result of the voting on election day. 3y his superiors this reporter was ushed to Louisiana to watch the utempt for his paper. It did not take hint long to discover, ifter his arrival in New Orleans that he field of his activity must be that :ity. This was so because, though the Igures of three parishes in the northern part of the state were to be chang d, the work was being done in New Orleans. In Louisiana the civil divisons, which in our state are called ounties, are termed parishes. The figures of the count on election lay had given Tilden over 5,000 majorty. Question as to the accuracy of hat count had been raised and allcgaions of fraud made in the three parshes. The parish canvassing officers vere not to be found at their homes, ind it was said that they were in New Orleans under cover. In the meantime, n some mysterious way, the official remits were being held up somewhat beween the parishes and the capital of he state. At that time the state of Louisiana vas under the control of as rascally a rang of carpet-baggers from the north is ever encumbered the earth, aided >y a conscienceless group of colored nen, who controlled the negro vote. Phis control was supported by the >resence of United States troops. The city was in a state of wild ex itement. The Democrats were nearly rantic over what they believed was a arefaced, fraudulent attempt to deprive them of a well earned victory? von over great odds?won over United States troops stationed at the polls to ntluenee'the voting. To them the seating of Tilden in the iresidential chair meant relief front lurdens and oppressions of the United States troops and the dissipation of the row of carpet-baggers, who were rob>ing right and left. They were angered to the fighting jioint and till were more angered because they could not learn what was eing done. Crowds of militant Deino rats thronged the streets, the bar'oonis, the hotel spaces, talking wildly n threatening and denunciatory words. \ very dangerous outbreak was possible at any place and at any moment. The reporter felt that in order to move about in these excited crowds, with a degree of safety, it was necessary that his own mission should be thoroughly understood. So lie was at tains to make himself known and that lie represented a northern paper 1* ?eno onikiood iiwr rl'il<l.?ii - ill 111 v 11 ? aa 0ii|'|n>i i iii^ i ? -? that he was I here to do liis part in prevent ing the theft of a state. Perhaps that is the reason why he achieved a mnspiciiity at which he had not aimed and why he was. to a slight extent, involved in an incident that promised at the time to he of great importance. First, it is to he told as having a degree of relationship to the incident of which mention has hcett made that there were in town strangers front the north who, the reporter was firmly convinced, were agents of Ihe Republican national committee. In the case of two of them there was 110 concealment to the reporter, for they were aware that he knew what had been their relations to that com ?v< | m :*m vPrega Association;! house. It has been called a rich man's folly a thousand times, but Mr. Clark has gone ahead pouring his millions into the home until now his task has reached an end. Mrs. Clark has been spending the majority of her time in Paris, o nrl If tho nlnna t~\f t ht? niinitiP' man rln not miscarry, she will arrive In New York soon, ready to take an active part in the social world. But here a stumbling block may await the men of millions and his wife, for the inner circles have been quoted as saying they could take no part in launching a woman in social circles with J6.000.000 worth of furniture. "My word," Harry Lehr said one day, "i would be in mortal terror. Think of knocking over a vase that cost $20,000!" mittee in the campaign. The fact that these men were plainly dissatisfied with the course of events and that they did not hold the men who were supposed to be manipulating the returns in the most implicit trust, gave the reporter much food for thought? Hi is and the other fact that day by day there were no developments of moment while the public excitement was rising higher and higher. Late one afternoon, after a fruitless day's labor, the wearied reporter slipped into his hotel, and finding an empty chair in a remote corner of the office sat himself down for a rest. He had been resting but a short time when a man whose acquaintance he had made at the Republican convention in Cincinnati that summer dropped into a chair beside him. After a few unimportant remarks, the man suddenly asked: "Are you representing the Tilden people here?' The reporter hastened to assure the questioner that he represented nothing but his paper?that he was merely a news gatherer. The man said no more on tnat score anu snoruy auer wem away. He joined a man leaning against the office counter. After a brief exchange he left the second person, and, after sauntering about a little, finally resumed the vacant chair beside the reporter. By and by came the question whether the reporter knew if there was a Tilden representative in town To this the reporter replied fhat he knew of none who was openly such although there was one man in town who, he had reason to suspect, bore some such relation. Again the stranger went away. An hour elapsed and he reappeared, asking the reporter if he would accompany him to a room on the next lloor. The affair was becoming mysterious. The reporter followed with some eagerness, for he thought that in a situation barren of real incidents of moment something of value might be the outcome. He was rushed into a room in which was seated a person, at once recognized by the repeter as he was prominent in the "carpet-bag" control of Louisiana. It was Pinchbeck, then United States senator-elect. So soon as the reporter had been presented to Pinchbeck the guide disappeared. Without preliminary remark the magnate of the carpet-bag asked. "Will you give me the name of the man you suspect 10 oe ? i UJJOIlt?" To this the reporter replied: "I do not know that lie is one. I certainly would not give his name without his permission." The upshot was that the reporter agreed to timl this man, and, if he was willing to bring about a meeting with a person whom l'inehbeek neither named imr indicated. It was a singular mission, concerning which he had many doubts. He had but little more than a speaking acquaintance with the person in question. He did not know just what lie was. He was by no means certain that lie was an agent of the Tilden inI terests, or that he was a man to lie trusted in such a capacity, lie was one of those men not infrequently met, invariably present at conspicuous political events, moving about with much reserve, having 110 visible duty, en! gaged in no apparent work, knowing everybody, in confidence with n?? one, yet well informed, apparently an isolated (piantity. I'lacid. smiling, secret ive and eynieal. he was an interesting figure, though no one knew his means of support or his purposes in life. Such was Rhodes. The reporter had heard that in the Tweed affair he had been in confidential relations with Tilden, and knew that in the canal ring light he had sat around the Albany hotels, referring contemptuously to Tilden as an old fox, who was not true to his work and who could not be trusted. It was to this man the reporter l went, telling him, without reserve, of ( the meeting of Pinchbeck. "I do not admit that I .am a Tilden 1 agent," saitl the mysterious man, "indeed, I want you distinctly to understand that I am not?that I have no authority to act as such. Now, with this understanding, I am willing that my name should he known and to meet whoever wants to meet me.' A meeting took place the next day with a man whose identity I never learned. In the late afternoon of that day the reporter met Rhodes carrying his grip. "Going away?" asked the reporter. "To Washington, as quick as I can. Gome with me to the station. He was silent on the way thither, hut as he put out his hand to the reporter and hade him good-hye ho said: "T?uislana is for sale; J250.000 is the price. I am not an agent for Tilden or for that Interest, hut I carry the | terms of the bargain. In your own interest you will keep this to yourself." The reporter did not keep it to himself, hut he never heard more of the matter during that excited period. In November. 1891, in a public speech at Chickering Hall in Manhattan, Abram S. Hewitt, who had been chairman of the Democratic national committee, and in the 1876 campaign, Tilden's camnaign manager, and, as well, member of congress, used these words: "The state of Louisiana has determined a presidential election. The vote of this state was offered to me for money, and f declined to buy It. Rut the vote of that state was sold for money." -? 1 3 tk.t I Ann Since me reporter rt-?u mm i of Mr. Hewitt's speech he has often 1 wondered if Mr. Hewitt related the ' end of the Incident of the beginning of ' which, in New Orleans, the reporter ' had personal knowledge. ? Hartford ' Daily Times. i FLYING MACHINES ANCIENT. \ i Attempts at Flight 500 Years Before i Balloon Was Invented. So ancient is the Idea of the flying i machine that the first attempts at ] navigation of the sky are lost in the < clouds of time and fable, but there < are authentic accounts of Inventions ] and attempts made at least 500 years I before the invention of the balloon. 1 Knolles, in his history of the Turks. < gives an account of an attempt at ' flight made In the year 1147 at Con- < stantinople. during the visit to Cllsas- I thian. the Turkish Sultan to Emanuel, 1 the Greek emperor. An active and < daring Turk conceived the Idea that ' by clothing himself in garments made < with great fullness, so that they would I catch the wind, he would be able to ( hover in the air after springing from ' the top of a tall tower, coming easily ' and gradually to the earth. In the ( presence of the two rulers and a great crowd of people he made the at- 1 tempt, and promptly broke his neck. 1 Scottish history relates a somewhat ' similar story, the "flight" taking ' place from the battlements at Stirling ' castle. 1 In 1817 the European journals gave ' accounts of a "flying machine" said ' to have been invented by a country ' clergyman of Lower Saxony. It was 1 stated that "the machine Is built of light wood: it is made to float in the air. chiefly by means of the constant ( action of a pair of large bellows of a J peculiar construction, which occupies In the front the position of the lungs and the neck of a bird on the wing, j The wings on both sides are directed by thin cords. The height to which | a farmer's boy (10 or 12 years of age) whom the inventer has instructed in the management of it. has hith- ' orto ascended with it. is not considerable. because his attention has been more directed to give a progressive j than an ascending motion to this machine." The clergy seem at ail times to , have been foremost in the attempts at , navigation of the air, Milton, in his { history of Britain, speaking of one . Elmer, a monk, who foretold the in- . vasion of William of Normandy, who. in his youth, made and fitted to his , hands and feet some form of wings. , and with these he undertook to fly { from the top of a tower. . | A certain success attended his ef- , forts, as he actually did "fly" a furlong. 1 but the wind being strong, he event- j ually fell to the ground, breaking both 1 his legs. "So conceited was he of his { art," the historian remarks, "that he t attributed the cause of his fall to the | want of a tail, as birds have, which he l forgot to make and lix behind him." < In the year 1809 a Mr. Dcgan, a t watchmaker, of Vienna, constructed ] a flying machine to operate in a man- t nor analogous to the wings of birds, t while the effect partly resembled the t closing of a parachute, stationary on j its descent. The frame consisted of t rods, on which the navigator stood t erect. ' A tlat wing, nine feet long, I eight feet long at the base, and ter- , initiating in a point, projecting from f each side of the frame at the "shoulder," and a fan-shaped tail projecting 5 behind. Each wing, by means of cords, could be made concave or llattened, j and tin* tail was similarly controlled. . Mr. Degan is said to have made successful Mights with his machine. As no 1 mention is made of motive power, it i must be assumed that the device was j a gliding machine simply. Reference has been made to the in- ' terest taken by the clergy in air navi- ^ gation?another of this class was i Joseph Gailen, a Dominican friar and ( professor of philosophy and theology at Avignon. His proposition, made public in 1755. was to collect the fine, I diffuse air of the higher regions where j hail is fermed and to inclose it in a . bag of cubical shape, composed of the thickest sailcloth and extending a mile 1 in each direction! With this machine. ? he contended, it would be possible to < transport an entire army with all its , munitions of war. The theory of lite balloon had been ' known to men of science for a long 1 while, hut the tir>t known application j of tite theory in Kurope, at any rate, was in 1783, when two brothers. Stephen and Joseph Montgollier, of ' Antionay. constructed and sent up a i balloon of fair size. The llrst aerial . voyage ever made by man, so far as is certainly known, was on November 5 31, 1783. when Pilatre de Kozier, a s young naturalist, and the Marquess ; d'Arlandes ascended from tlie chateau j of Miictte about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. The balloon ascended to a ' height of about 3,000 feet, sailed over ' Paris, following a course about six | miles long, and at the end of twentylive minutes descended in the sub- ' The mily practical uses to which i balloons have so far been put have ] consisted in scientific observations , and as observation stations during war. The first use of a balloon for ' war purposes at the battle of Liege, i when the French successfully employed them to observe the Austrian position and movements.?Chicago Tribune. ( TRAINS. Most Familiar Yet Romantic Things In the World. A railway train, the most familiar thing in the world, is the most romantic. It is the profound and inexhaustible source of joy to the uncounted generations of children that step into one another's little shoes and keep the faculty of rapture alive on earth. It is a. call and a promise to all the restlesshearted, that want to get away from their neighbors, their drudgery or their own thoughts. It is a lure and a mystery and an embodiment of the invisible and unspeakable to the poet. He will pause on a windy hilltop, call down his gaze from the unplumbed blue overhead to wateh the noon mail traverse the bit of dear skyline on the opposite ridge. The train roars afar >t'f, like the surf on sand; comes fast into view; crosses its allotted space? and is gone. It passes slowly enough as the watch ticks, yet urgent and low and long, over there, like a running greyhound or a racing horse, it conveys the impression of matchless velocity. It goes like a hunted thing In a fiream, that makes desperate haste and ?an barely creep by the lagging landmarks. It was not, it was there. It tvas gone. It came out of the unknown Infinite, and passed again into the infinite unknown. It is a daily recurrent symbol. Life is a moment between two eternities. a wild swallow's ilight through i lighted hall, a train that goes by ilong a hill-crest. At night the lonely booting of the engine in the darkness firaws a poet to his balcony to watch the regular lights flash by far above in the high horizon, and see the sudclen flare, ruddy against the level trail if smoke, vibrating dimly outward, through the thick black air, even to the rim of things. Tinder all the sky. In thick weathers, in certain aspects, the glow seems to mingle with the gray of night and change the colors It?tn anfYnso it all with imnalnahle golddust; the tawny plume of smoke, the golden patches of the windows, the hurrying silhouette of dull Mack solutions and bewildering progressions of modern music. They have the same lir of suggesting what experience has not known, of stirring memories which must reach to the other side of birth? mtenatal dreams, intangible expectations. The stablest and fas test-rooted feel the spell of this swift power that passes. At the whistle of the down sxpress, farmers lean on their hoes, straighten their backs, push back their hats; the wives come to doors, dishtowels or white sewing in hand; the hrown-faced, pale-haired children 3raw up in line, like soldiers at salute. They are rooted as fast as their solid cabbages and cedar fence posts; but their interest vaguely reaches out, follows the thundering cars a little way, though it comes back before the birds have settled down again in their hunJreds on the sagging telegraph wires. Deep in the country the daily trains ;ome to be mere phenomena of nature, ike dawn and twilight, noon and dewfall, white frosts, new moons and the fhange of the leaf. They are acknowledged rather than attended to; but they held to set the time of the pulse, the rhythm of the days. Indeed, the dullest use, and won't cannot quite Ignore them. Even at the c ity's squalidest edge, where a hundred trains, it must be, pass before dark, and again i hundred before day, women at the lirty windows lift their heads; chil3ren on the burning pavements stand ma stare. The purblindest man who most religiously follows his nose must stop and ?ateh his breath a moment in a great : rain-yard at nightfall, with its eddying stream and volleying smoke, with its looming and drifting bulks and glimmering lines of rail; its winking lights, red, green and blue, its tlaring ?as torches, its great silvery moons of :he arc-light hanging over all; the oaring and thunder and shriek of lower in action, of earth-shaken mass?s in motion, of metal grinding metal, ind vapor rending vapor; its vistas of ihadows and vaster distances of ights; its pitchy cuttings and effulgent subway; its great viaducts stretched black across the luminous ulue of the untroubled night. For a moment he must see the splendor of it ill. Incomparable decorative mateMai is here, and painter and draughtsman nowadays love the rail. Poet and artist are at one with c vayfarer. The born traveler, to whom ill possible modes of conveyance are illurement and dalliance, will choose his if he can. He is never weary of eading time tables. The railway, he .vi 11 urge, is fraught with beauty and omance, and yet Is entirely practica>le. To travel by carriage is a quaint md charming way; but he would no more try it than he would express his 'eelings in "Zounds!" and "Good ack!" It is out of date. Motoring, in the other hand, is a costly pleasire. and his purse is always light. Vfotorcars arc out of reach. Rut the rain is there; the train is cheap; the rain is various. It gives him soli.ude for a price, and company for a jlain ticket. It gives, into the bargain, is much human nature as a philanhropist could digest, or a tramp. It Its the body with wneels, but the soul vith wings, and sends that airily voyiging through strange seas of thought ilone. To lie awake and feel oneself plungng and thundering through the uncnown; to hear the locomotive warn md call, and call ahead again, and to ealize the darkness closing in behind, s to be, for a moment, bigger than nie's body. It is to spread wide rings than the morning's, and to brood tbove the illimitable as dawn broods >n the sea. Just as the power of love akes one beyond merely loving, so he power of space takes one on be orul space. An immense freight tra'n, uniting across the continent with liore than a hundred cars that lumber ind rumble after, never hurrying, no >r pausing. is an enduring image of itrength sufficient to the task. The ittle express that dashes from New illTK in Lllll'ilSI) ill aouic s small ami neat as a runner, light iml elean-niade. The Mr locomotives hat serve the heavy traffic convey, as nothing in nature dues, the sense of tower inexhaustilde, yet controlled ablolutely. Heauty, philosophers say, is limply adaptation. Certainly perfect idaptation is somethinR very like leauty. These have the same miRht iml majesty as brawny porters, Rreat ihips, the contours of cliffs and oak ;rees. Themselves origins of force, iml responsive to direction, they imnart the sense of life, but of a life that lever tires and never "breaks loose." It knows neither summer droughts nor ipriiig freshets. Where such force oiisists of such mastery it is hard not to postulate a will. A locomotive standing with steam up seems as gentle as terrible. Some nne, who lives a close neighbor to the vast yard where such great creatures are stabled at night and who hears all their arrivals and departures, their puffings and signals and waitings, says the sound of them all night in the darkness is like huge dogs coming in heavily, lying down and panting for hours, with watchful eyes, patient, sleepless, mighty. The notion fits with man's anthroi>omorphic imagination. Any one who will listen at night, in the right place, may hear their heavy breathing and feel the throb of life in them. Ask the engineers. Ask the wise folk who have also seen the fairies. Ask, above all, the poet, who can recognize everywhere in what others count dead matter the essence and the eternitv of life, the fraerance of soul. "Sure," he will reply, with a twinkle, "they have not the affections of the furry kind, hut they have not the blind passions of man. They are below the whole creation, and yet they cannot sin. Having made them, are we not responsible for them? What shall we do with them? At least, let us love!"?Harper's Weekly. BIG FISH YARNS. Natives Made Smart Drummer Feel Ashamed of Himself. There is a certain traveling salesman who for years has made a territory composed of part of central Missouri, some of the Osage river country' and some of the Ozark region. He loves to go fishing, and his territory has given abundant opportunity. With such inclination and experience it follows, In the course of nature, that from the facts of experience and the workings of an active and vivid imagination he came to construct and evolve a repevtory of fish stories that he took every opportunity to tell, and all who heard them wondered and gave out they couldn't be beat, much to the drummer-fisherman's satisfaction. But he has for some time past quit telling fish stories, though he still goes fishintr. He has auit from much the same feeling as comes over the crack billiard player of a small town when he sees an expert like Hoppe perform with the cue. One time not very long ago this drummer's Arm added Camden county, Missouri, to his territory and he went there loaded as he was with his fish yarns. Now everybody In Camden county fishes. There is much good fishing matter there, the Osage, the Little and Big Niangua, the Wet Glaize, the Dry Glaize and Innumerable minor streams, lakes, ponds and water-filled sink holes. Years of constant fishing and plenty of time otherwise to serenely conjure the matter in mind, together with long experience in relating, has given the average Camden county man a gift of telling fish yarns with detail and Gulllver-IIke reality that is the very highest and most artistic performance yet reached in fish narration. Camden county is rather Isolated; few outsiders know anything about it and the people of it. The drummer did not know, so he went to Linn Creek, the county seat of Camden, "drummed" the town, ate his supper and, in the gloaming, sat out on the hotel gallery side and side with sundry elderly Linn Creekers of the ruminative cast that betokens appreciative listeners. And that drummer began telling those elders his flsh stories, beginning with his mildest and gradually getting into his most ferocious. The strain of these last made him run down and pause to think up another. At the pause a lit- ; tie old man with white beard and serious demeanor, who had been listening attentively, spoke up and, in a low, even, flute-toned voice that never quavered, let loose this one: "Up at my place," said he, "a short spell ago, the boys and me cut down a big tree. After it fell we set down a mit on the trunk to rest and I heard something make a queer sort of fluttering, sputtering noise down inside what we was settln' on. " 'Boys, sez I, 'ain't this here tree holler?' " 'No,' sez them, 'it's solid and sound.' "Then I hear the sound inside again. I grabbed an ax and, sez I, while I set in to choppki,' There's something inside this here, and I'm going to know what it is.' "I notched a big notch and cut into a holler place Inside with punk water in it. In there was a nine-pound catfish, which was what I'd been hearin' floppin'." "How did that flsh get into such a place?" asked the drummer. "I ain't no idee, less'n the tree had growed 'round him, which I reckon it had done some time or other." Before the drummer could catch his breath a grave senior of Linn Creek, sitting on the other side of him, let this one loose: "There was a terrible big flsh used to come up the Osage before the war, and we got to hearin' so much about * - * " ~ ma* in a AO /"> V* It a passei 01 us ieueia sci. in iu imvn him. We got 200 feet of Inch rope, had the blacksmith weld up a big hook and we put on a yaller dog for bait. We set our line, and sure enough it wasn't long; that fish took dog, hook and all and we had him hung fast. We couldn't nigh land him, though? there was more'n a dozen of us?and he'd pulled us all in the river only we hitched on two ox teams?six yoke each?and then steers, and we all drug that fish out after a tough, hard pull. He measured nine feet between the eyes, and his eyes set a heap closer together than they'd order set in a fish of that size." Another elder took right up following and began this way: "Once up on the Glaize"?but our drummer arose, remarked that he had to get away very early next morning and had better go to bed. He did go upstairs and to bed right then and there, and from that time to this very day nobody has heard him tell a fish yarn.?Kansas City Star. WHEN THE SKIES CLEAR OFF. The prospects will be brighter, The burdens will be lighter, An' the souls of us be whiter When the skies clear off. With sweeter roses springin', An' sweeter birds a singln', An' all the bells a ringin' When the skies clear off. The silver?it'll jingle. Till your lingers tingle, tingle; Old friends'll meet and mingle When the skies clear off. An' trouble like a feather. Will go sailin' out the weather; We'll sing an' dance together When the skies clear off. There's a sign o' light a comin'. An' you hear the wagon hummin'; You'll be marchin' to the drummin' When the skies clear off. No matter what's the trouble? It'll break Just like a bubble. An' you'll drive in harness double When the skies clear off. ?Atlanta Constitution. X'.; in birds, the normal temperature is one hundred and ten to one hundred r.nd twelve degrees Fahrenheit? a temperature fatal for human beings.